She died; voices cried.
|Leaving her crown for another to wear,|
The short and fat queen is gone from her chair.
Then Angles shouted at her old son, 'Swear!'
The man must take the sad crown with his hair.
Sounds from hearts rumbled in the morning air;
The queen's gray locks lay in the golden glare;
Oh that each dead does have a working ear!
But the queen won't hear e'en a trailer's blare.